


Bad Dog No Biscuits

by hyuy (doll_revolution)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Boredom, M/M, Ridiculous, Safehouses, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-01
Updated: 2000-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doll_revolution/pseuds/hyuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>too much time between missions leads to . . .this</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Dog No Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

> my personal faves from my oldest fandom. revel in the newbie-ness

Heero told me, over and over again, that the only way to live a good life is to act on your emotions. Well, I'm here to tell you that if the emotion is lust, you might want to stop and think before acting.

Definitely, stop and think.

This all happened a couple of months ago. We were staying at one of Quatre's mansions --hiding a la "The Purloined Letter"-- and we were bored. Deeply, truly, stick-a-fork-in-it-it's-done bored. It had been almost three weeks since we'd had a mission, and we were all getting a little stir-crazy.

Wu-man fought the stress by practicing his katas. Double-speed, half-speed, blindfolded, backwards; he was like a machine. He'd stumble back into the house at sunset, covered in sweat and swaying. He'd drink straight from the faucet and slide down against the cupboard, mumbling about weakness and justice. Unless someone dragged him off to his bed, he'd spend the night right there on the floor, curled-up and twitching.

So not a pleasant sight with your eggs in the morning.

God only knows what Quatre and Trowa did. Sometimes you'd hear them play duets, and sometimes you'd hear them play the violin and flute. Heh. Mostly, though, they went deep into the bowels of the house, and we never saw or heard them. Actually, it was kind of creepy after awhile.

Of course, I was a little too busy to spend a lot of time thinking about it.

I don't know what got into Heero, but he decided we would combat boredom by seeing how many times we could have sex until we just couldn't do it anymore. And it had to be a different way each time.

Like I would say no to this plan.

Actually, our two personalities were the perfect combination for this "mission". Heero had the determination and the iron will to see it through to the bitter end, and push me forward when I faltered. And I had the, uh, breadth of experience and imagination to make sure we didn't repeat anything.

So we went for the gold: top, bottom, sideways, 69, on the floor, on the desk, tied-up, role-playing, sadism-- we did it all. It was the beginning of the third day before I started to run out of ideas. (Although, that thing with the eggbeater, the hair dryer, and the curtain rod? I could so do that again. But I'd need to build up my quads first.)

Anyway, I decided our next act would be the butter dog. Heero agreed, as long as he was the dog. Then he added a last-minute touch of exhibitionism: he said we had to do it in the hallway, where anyone could see us if they came out of their rooms.

And people wonder why I love this boy.

So I was naked, covered in melted butter, head thrown back, braced against the railing that ran above the living room. Heero was on his knees, slowly, slowly licking his way up my body. He flung his arms around my waist in a bruising hug. A bad idea. My butter-slicked body shot out of his arms and I pitched backwards over the railing.

I remember thinking, as I fell, "Well, this is a damn stupid way to die!" But then I hit something soft and bounced and rolled and thumped face-first on to the floor.

I pushed myself up to my hands and knees, tossed my hair off my face, and then my eyes met a pair of shocked blue ones. And they were not Quatre's. I slowly turned my head to the right, and saw five more pairs of eyes, all equally shocked. Oh, God, six of Quatre's sisters?

I turned my head to the left and smiled weakly at Quatre and Trowa, both of whom had no expression at all on their faces. It seems I'd fallen smack in the middle of a damn tea party.

And the "something soft" I had hit? Cathy. Although she didn't look too shocked. In fact, I think her eyes kept drifting towards my ass.

I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. Nope, not a dream. Shit. You know how people sometimes say "I wish the ground would swallow me whole."? I had always thought that to be a bit of an exaggeration. But no: there I was, buck-naked and on my knees, praying to a god I didn't believe in to let the earth gape wide and and bury me.

Didn't happen, though.

What do you say in that situation? It was a larger than average social faux pas. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I was damn well going to say something. I opened my mouth to speak, but Trowa beat me to it.

Leaning forward from his chair, he sternly shook his finger in my face. "Bad dog!" he said. "No biscuits!" Then he hit me on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

I blinked, and did the only thing possible, given the circumstances: I barked twice, and crawled the hell away from there, leaving a shiny butter trail behind me.

The laughter of women: such an evil, evil sound.


End file.
